


A Perilous Quest, Kind Of

by secace



Category: Arthurian Literature - Fandom, Arthurian Mythology, Arthurian Mythology & Related Fandoms
Genre: Gen, M/M, UNFORTUNATLY, a lot about the geography of the orkney islands, brief mentions of elaine of corbenic, contrived nonsense, more that i ever thought i would learn, obligatory orkney mommy issues
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-09
Updated: 2020-05-15
Packaged: 2021-02-28 21:34:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 14,849
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23074060
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/secace/pseuds/secace
Summary: “I- I have to go home to the Orkneys on some business.”Lancelot stared at him, disbelieving. “That’s it?”“Well, it’s not-”“You said perilous!”“It might be!”“You said dragons!”“I didn’t say dragons, I said monsters, there’s a difference,”“Barbarians?”“...well they don’t speak Greek.”“Sorcery?”Gawain perked up at that.“Oh, yes, there will be at least one sorceress- that being my mother, of course.”Lancelot threw up his hands. “Of course!”
Relationships: Gawain/Lancelot du Lac (Arthurian)
Comments: 14
Kudos: 44





	1. Part One

**Author's Note:**

> warning for very brief and somewhat oblique mention of rape like 80 percent of the way through the first chapter. ill add any other warnings here as i go uwu

Scotland was terrible and rainy all the time and Lancelot was determined not to spend a single second longer than necessary in that godforsaken country. 

Growing up in a magical land of eternal spring under a lake in the south of France tended to give one a very low tolerance for inclement weather, and he wasn’t coping particularly well.

He wasn’t even entirely sure how he’d gotten there, honestly. Some town near York had been plagued by a demon-boar that he’d chased north for days, and when he finally killed it he got lost on the way back and ended up, somehow, in Lothian. 

He was slightly more sure how he ended up in this section of Lothian specifically, riding up to Gawain, who was tied up on the ground. The short answer was his mother had given him a tip, and that was also the long answer.

“Hullo, Gawain. How stands it with you?”

“Well I’ve certainly had better days,” he admitted, though he looked as cheerful as someone who’d been carried off by a giant could be.

“Hey!” A huge man, fully armoured, was stomping over to where they were talking. He had a huge sword in one hand and a scowl on his face.

“Sir Lancelot, Carados, Carados, Sir Lancelot,” Gawain said dryly, as if he were introducing two acquaintances at a party rather than in the middle of a kidnapping.

Lancelot ignored Carados.

“Would you like me to murder him for you?”

“Oh, aye, please do.”

He didn’t have time to reply before Carados reached them and the fight began. It was a short one- the man was big, but he wasn’t particularly skilled. In fact, as standing over the defeated Carados, now prone, Lancelot wondered how he’d managed to capture Gawain in the first place.

“Please, spare me!” whimpered the giant man.

Lancelot turned to the former captive, who had already taken the liberty, somehow, of cutting his bindings, and was now watching the proceedings idly. 

“Well, Gawain? It’s up to you.”

He pretended to deliberate for some time, then finally he signalled the man should be spared, in the dispassionate manner of a Roman emperor deciding a gladiators fate.* 

“Well, you get to live. Don’t kidnap people anymore. Now, how will you properly make it up to the man who generously granted you mercy?” 

Gawain didn’t wait for the beaten man to answer.

“I want his lands. He can keep his castle and the village around it, but I want everything else.”

“Harsh, but-”

“And his horse.”

“Uh-”

“And he has a wineskin in his saddlebags, I want that too.”

“Are you done?” Lancelot asked, surprised.

He nodded, satisfied. Carados began to loudly protest, and while his complaints were met with little sympathy, Gawain eventually did agree to let him keep his horse. They sent him on his way after extracting a mostly sincere promise to never capture anyone again.

“Can you believe he had the gall to call himself the ‘king of Scotland?’ as if I don’t exist,” uncorking the wineskin, Gawain sat down in the grass and took a swig, “Not king of anything now. That you for the rescue, by the way- and for Galloway.”

Lancelot froze. “Galloway? As in, the entire kingdom of Galloway?”

“You said I could have his lands. It’s not my fault you aren’t keen on politics.” 

Hoping he hadn’t just set off a civil war, he sat down next to Gawain and took a generous pull of wine. 

“This stuff is awful.”

“Yeah, I think it’s meant to be watered down.”

They sat in mostly companionable silence for a while, passing the wine back and forth as the sun began to dip lower. It was nice, Lancelot thought, after months on the road, fighting monsters and strangers and bandits, to sit and drink and watch the sun setting. 

“Hey,” He spoke finally, “why did you let Carados capture you? You’re a far better fighter than he is, and you escaped your bonds without any help from me.”

His friend shrugged, “I was looking for you. You have a knack for only showing up when you’re needed.”

“Wait, you-” Lancelot laughed, “I can’t believe you got yourself kidnapped!”

“I can’t believe it worked!”

Just then, they heard the sound of hoofbeats and saw a massive roan destrier, riderless and approaching from the South. 

“Right on time,” said Gawain, rising, and seemingly unsurprised by the sudden appearance of a horse that looked more like a beast than a tame animal.

“Is that Gringolet?” 

Gawain nodded, smiling, as the horse crested the hill and trotted up to his master. Lancelot stook quickly and took several steps back. 

“Is- is it true that he once bit off a guys hand?”

“Only a few fingers! And the man was a thief, probably,” he said defensively, patting Gringolet on the head as if to indicate the horse’s gentle nature.

“Probably?”

Gawain waved the question off. “You aren’t in the middle of any vitally important endeavour, are you?”

“No, just general errantry, I suppose,” he admitted, a little embarrassed.

“Oh, good. You wouldn’t be up for a quest then? It’ll be perilous,” Gawain warned. 

“Will it now?”

“Oh yes. I dare say the most perilous undertaken you’ve ever attempted- sorceresses, barbarians, monsters, strange lands, all of it.”

“Well, what is it?” Lancelot demanded, curious in spite of himself.

“You have to agree to it first before I tell you, it’s that perilous.”

“Fine, yes, I’ll go, now tell me what it is,” He said, growing impatient.

Promise extracted, Gawain sighed in relief, then collapsed onto the grass and took a long drink of wine before he spoke again. He gestured for Lancelot to sit next to him.

“Settle in.”

He acquiesced quickly, keen to hear about this promised adventure. To his relief, Gringolet had wandered a ways off to graze when he realized his master didn’t intend to go anywhere anytime soon. 

Though it was true he often preferred to travel alone, Lancelot found himself oddly eager at the prospect of some dangerous adventure with his friend, like when they were younger. But Gawain did not explain. He fidgeted with the cap of the wineskin, stared at the horizon, then the ground. 

“Good God, just tell me already, it can’t possibly be too terrifying to even discuss.”

“I- I have to go home to the Orkneys on some business.”

Lancelot stared at him, disbelieving. “That’s it?”

“Well, it’s not-”

“You said perilous!”

“It might be!”

“You said dragons!”

“I didn’t say dragons, I said monsters, there’s a difference,”

“Barbarians?”

“...well they don’t speak Greek.”

“Sorcery?”

Gawain perked up at that.

“Oh, yes, there will be at least one sorceress- that being my mother, of course.”

Lancelot threw up his hands. “Of course!”

“Well, you don’t have to come,” Gawain said, looking rather cross.

“No, no, I made a promise, you can’t get rid of me now,” he said quickly, “I just don’t see why you need my help.”

“My uncle recommended I find someone outside my family to accompany me.”

Recommended, Lancelot assumed, here meant insisted, though he did not understand why.

Perhaps sensing the unuttered question, Gawain continued, “he wants me to… checkup, I suppose, on my mother- her and Morgan have always been close, and my family has, unfortunately, a somewhat checkered history when it comes to loyalty to the crown.”

“That’s ridiculous- there’s no knight more loyal than you.”

Gawain shook his head. “It’s not that simple, and that wasn’t always true. Arthur is right to send someone impartial.”

“And you think- I’ll be impartial?”

He shrugged, “I think that I enjoy your company.”

“...Oh,” Lancelot said, feeling strangely honoured.“I also, uh, enjoy your company.”

“Thanks,” Gawain smiled, “for that, and again for the rescue.”

“It is the duty of a good knight to rescue damsels in distress,” He answered boldly. Gosh, he thought, that wine was definitely meant to be watered down.

Gawain raised an eyebrow.

“I’m a damsel, am I? Should I give you a favour to wear?”

“It is customary,” he answered, unsure where this was going.

“Here’s something to wear!” Gawain crowed, and emptied the wineskin out over Lancelot’s head. Jumping to his feet before Lancelot could do anything but sputter and look offended, he called over Gringolet and leapt onto the horses back, laughing all the while.

“Dùn Breatann, tomorrow morning, I’ll meet you there!**” He cried, then rode off.

And Lancelot was left feeling very fortunate that he was in the middle of the lonely Scottish countryside where no one could see him- standing around covered in wine, fully armoured, grinning like an idiot.

* * *

They set off from Dùn Breatann early, in what little tepid morning light managed to reach through the grey clouds and constant drizzle of icy November rain. It would be about two weeks till they reached the shore of the Sea of Orcs,*** from which a ship would take them across the strait to the main island, which was confusing called the mainland. 

The first few days were misty and uneventful, passing happily enough. Gawain was effusive, talking a great deal about his home- the weather, the people, the food, the songs and the legends- he told stories of his childhood that Lancelot thought could not possibly be true, and even tried, in jest, to teach him how to swear in the island’s own language. 

As the days wore on, these lessons in jest became lessons in earnest, and Gawain tried, almost feverishly, to explain all the intricacies of local politics, history and customs, giving him lists of names to memorize and words to learn. He went over every aspect of those islands in exhaustive detail, except for their queen, of which he did not speak at all.

It quickly became clear that Lancelot could not possibly learn everything, and so the lectures petered out into stony silence as they came to their tenth day of travel. The sun waned in tandem with the conversation, as it set earlier each evening, till it grew dark only a little after nones. 

On the eleventh day, the terrain grew rocky, and they had to lead the horses, a task made only more difficult by the driving rain and thick fog. Gawain had not so much as uttered a word since the previous afternoon, and that barely counted seeing as it was directed at Gringolet.

The rain was coming down like volleys of arrows, too thick to see more than a few feet ahead. The third time he fell and almost broke his neck, he called out.

“Maybe we should stop!”

Grudgingly, Gawain agreed, for the sake of the horses more than anything, and within a few minutes led them to a rocky overhang. It was small enough that the poor horses could not fit under it, and had to be left in the rain covered in already soaked blankets- though Gringolet, as always, seemed unaffected.

They stood in uncomfortable silence, listening to the wind howl and the rain beat at the heavy stone above.

“We should reach the coast in a few days,” Lancelot said after what felt like a long while, for the sake of saying something, anything, no matter how banal.

Gawain nodded tersely. His whole body was tense, restless, and his eyes were darkly lined from lack of sleep. But his silence was the most troubling change in his demeanour, being so wholly uncharacteristic for him. 

“What are you so worried about?” 

He turned, startled, as if so deep in thought as to forget he wasn’t alone.

“Nothing.”

“You’re a wreck,” Lancelot noted bluntly. Gawain held his gaze for several moments in a mulish show of incomprehension, then glanced away.

“I- I’m sorry,” he slumped down against the stone wall, looking miserable, “I’m sorry for dragging you along on this, blame it on a moment of cowardice.”

“Cowardice? That I don’t buy from you.” 

“Call it weakness then. My family-” he shook his head. “It’s complicated.”

Lancelot gestured to the downpour, which had only gotten more inclement since they took shelter, “we have time.”

He laughed humorlessly, “I don’t even know where to start- do you really want the whole sordid history?”

“If you’ll give it.”

“...very well.” He took a deep breath, gathering his thoughts, then began.

“You know my mother is sister to Morgan le Fey. and half-sister to King Arthur?” he waited for a nod, then continued, “My grandmother was named Igraine. She married Gorlois, who was… I’m not quite sure what, but it was not human. Whatever he was, she loved him a great deal, I think. They had three daughters, Elaine, Morgan, and my mother, Morgause. Uther Pendragon was the king at that time, and he decided he wanted Igraine. He declared war on Gorlois, and then visited Igraine while her husband was away on the frontlines. With the help of an evil sorcerer, the king, disguised as Gorlois, slept with her.”

Gawain paused, sensing his sudden disquiet, if not the reason for it.

“It was a disgusting thing. She never forgave him, nor should she have.”

“No,” he said quietly.

“He left in the morning, and not an hour later, a messenger arrived with news from the front, that Gorlois had been killed in battle with the king’s forces. Uther returned and married Igraine-”

“How could she marry him, after that? How could she stand the sight of him?” Lancelot interrupted, horrified. 

“Igraine didn’t have a choice. She went along with it for the sake of her children’s safety.”

“Still…” 

“Still,” he agreed, gently. 

After it became clear Lancelot had nothing else to say, he continued.

“Uther saw the girls as threats to his rule, and quickly married them off- Morgause to my father, King Lot of Orkney, though they were all quite young. Igraine soon had a son with the king, who she named Arthur- I suspect you know the rest of that branch of the story.”

“Everyone does,” 

“True. When Arthur was crowned, my father refused to accept him as king. After Uther’s death, the Northern lords, led by my father, banded together and became independent of the British crown, and they weren’t willing to cede their autonomy to an untried Southerner. After years of fighting, the rebellion was just barely put down, thanks to the same sorcerer who helped Uther- Merlin.”

“I’ve heard of him.” Vivian, his adopted mother, had told stories of a powerful man, born of a demon. This man had frightened her, and she wasn’t afraid of anything. That’s what he’d thought as a child, at any rate, when he promised her that when he grew up he would kill this demon, so she wouldn’t be afraid. It turned out, of course, that his foster mother could very well take care of herself in that particular arena.

“I met him a few times. He did not seem as terrifying as I’d expected- just a sad old man. It was hard to picture him shooting flames from his hands or calling down lightning.”

Gawain stared out into the rainswept night, reluctant to continue.

“What happened to your father, after he rebelled?” Lancelot asked. 

“Nothing. He had too much sway with the other lords for Arthur to kill him, so they negotiated a peace. Arthur came all the way to Orkney- that’s when I first met him,” He chuckled, “Agravaine and I caught an otter and locked it in his room with him. I was fourteen.”

Lancelot smiled. It was nice to see his friend not looking so grim as he had the past week. 

“It didn’t last,” he said, growing serious again.

“We don’t talk ever speak of this, but my mother had five children, not four. The youngest, called Mordred, was born in spring, the year after the treaty. That year- all the children born in the spring of that year were taken. I’m not sure of the details- but Merlin was at the heart of it. They were put on a ship. The ship sank.” He hesitated, then corrected himself.

“The ship was sunk.”

The difference was subtle, but this deliberate change seemed thick with some important meaning that, in the moment, Lancelot failed to grasp. 

“My mother was inconsolable, my father blamed the king. That is when he rebelled the second time. 

“My father had knighted me, by then, so I went with him. That’s when Merlin revealed that Arthur was the son of Uther. When they learned he had royal blood, many of the lords, especially in the lowlands, refused to march with King Lot against Arthur. My father was killed in the fighting, by a knight named Pellinore. I was taken prisoner.”

“By King Arthur?” Lancelot said, surprised. He could not conceive that the man who dined with the king at the high table had once been in his dungeons. He had heard that there were rebellions, in the north, early in King Arthur’s reign, but had never thought about why the lords might rebel, or imagined that Gawain had been on their side.

“I told you I had a somewhat checkered history,” Gawain smiled ruefully, “I was in chains, exhausted, wounded, still covered in my father’s blood when I went before the king. I agreed to every demand, gave up northern sovereignty, and pledged myself to Arthur.

“When my mother heard, she swore she would never forgive me. I haven’t gone home since, and every brother that comes to court does so with her message on their tongues: That I betrayed our people, our father, and her dead child. That I am a coward and a fool.” 

“But it wasn’t your fault! That isn’t fair!” Lancelot protested, feeling angry on his friend's behalf, and unable to understand why he wasn’t upset himself.

Gawain shrugged. “Maybe, maybe not.”

“Definitely not!” he insisted. 

“Whatever you say,” he permitted. “No matter who the fault lies with, I have been dreading this trip for a decade, and, rather selfishly, I couldn’t face it with some stranger for company. I hoped it would be easier if I was with a friend- if he’ll have me?”

“Of course!” He answered, too quickly, before the last syllables of the question had been asked.

“Thanks, for listening to me, I suppose. And for coming with me,” Gawain paused, “I seem to be thanking you a lot lately.”

“I-I really don’t mind.” 

“Oh, you will,” he promised. He looked pleased, though. They lapsed into silence, but of a much more companionable variety. The rain was still coming down in sheets, and the icy wind was slipping into the little overhang, stealing away what little warmth there was and lashing them with freezing rain drops every few minutes.

“God, will the rain ever let up?” Lancelot complained, shivering.

Gawain studied his face for several seconds. He frowned at whatever he saw there, and before Lancelot could ask what the problem was, Gawain reached out and grabbed his hand. 

“I, uh-”

“You’re awfully cold. Why did you not say anything?”

“Aren’t you cold too?”

“Not really.”

“But the storm-”

Gawain laughed and released him, “This isn’t a storm, it’s just raining. You’re a real wimp of a southerner, Du Lac.”

 _Oh God, call me that again_ , he thought. Then- _whoa, nope, don’t go there, thoughts._

“-wood for a fire,” Gawain was saying when consciousness returned.

“Um, yes?”

“...not a question,” he said, bemused. Then he walked out into the rain, presumably for firewood, though how he planned to start a fire with soaked branches was a mystery. 

Lancelot was silent. He stared at his hand for a long moment, suddenly not feeling quite as cold.

“I’m just not going to think about that,” he announced aloud to no one.


	2. Part Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> tropes... are good sometimes

Two days later, in the evening, they reached Gills Bay, on the coast of the Sea of Orcs. The next morning they would pay for passage on one of the boats that went across the narrow strait and reach the Orkney mainland by noon. For the night they were staying at the lone run-down inn in the nameless village which had sprung, waterlogged and dreary, from the shore of Gills Bay.

Gawain, perched on the sill of the large recessed window, was giving one last-minute lecture about the supernatural danger that apparently lurked behind every rocky outcropping and barnacle-encrusted fishing vessel.

“If you see a horse on the beach, don’t touch it, just run, that's a kelpie and it will eat you. Also don’t mess with seals, because they might be selkies, and don’t sleep with a selkie, I know they’re handsome but it’s not worth it. Also, don’t sleep with a mermaid. Definitely don’t sleep with my mother, I will be obligated to kill you, and that is not a joke.”

Gawain thought for a second. “ You know what, just don’t sleep with anyone. And don’t touch strange animals you find on the beach.”

“...I wasn’t planning to do any of those things?”

“You have a history of not listening and making poor decisions, so just trust me when I say take my advice.”

“When have I ever not listened to your advice?” Lancelot asked, mildly offended.

Gawain scoffed, “Remember when a woman took us to a room with two perfectly fine beds and one very nice bed and said not to touch that bed, and I said that we’d better listen to her, and you immediately ignored us both and went to sleep in that bed?” He asked, and then, without waiting for an answer continued, “and the next morning you were miserable because you’d spent all night dodging flaming lances and hadn’t slept at all, and were then stuck with the name ‘Lancelot’ for the rest of your life?”

“Yeah, I- wait, what’s wrong with ‘Lancelot’?” 

Gawain grinned, “Well, he can’t keep a horse alive, for one.”

“Very funny.”

“I’m not done. He goes everywhere in disguise to avoid talking to people, never gets anywhere on time, and he’s fainting constantly, to the point where I’m actually concerned it’s a medical issue-”

Ducking to avoid the shoe Lancelot had just thrown at his head, Gawain continued, snickering, “he cries an awful lot, can’t handle teasing, doesn’t know when to quit, he’s self-flagellating, melodramatic, -ow!” The second boot of the pair had been harder to dodge.

“And now he has no shoes.”

Lancelot frowned.

“You’ve got a very long list of my faults.” 

“Well, compared to that of your virtues it is not so lengthy.”

“Oh?” He asked, feigning only casual interest.

“Yes. For one, you have excellent aim.”

“You- Oh, I give up!” 

They finished settling in and went downstairs for a quick, less than mediocre dinner. Gawain noted that the mead was terrible and then drank rather a lot of it in dread for the following morning, before remembering how early the ship would leave and dragging them both back upstairs.

“Well,” he said, surveying the small room “I was worried and now I'm just tired, so let's go to bed before it cycles back around.”

“But there’s only- oh.”

Gawain looked at him in mild disbelief, “I hate to be rude, but we’ve been in this room for an hour, and it’s not an especially large room. Did you not notice?”

“I, I just didn’t put it together,” he said dismally. It was normal, common, for travelling companions to share a bed. On an intellectual level, he knew this, and it was only that he was used to travelling alone, that he should be so flustered over the idea. It had nothing to do with who his companion happened to be, he told himself, though in the past he had shared with his cousins and Kay without a second thought.

“Well I don’t see why you should fuss about it- unless you were planning to sleep nude,” Gawain suggested mildly, with the hint of a smile.

“Don’t be absurd- I just wasn’t expecting this, is all,” Lancelot said peevishly. A rather immature part of him becoming irritated, with himself for his chagrin, and with Gawain for the part he was playing in it. 

The dismal weather was finally helpful; it was cold enough, and the old inn drafty enough, that he didn’t need to justify the decision to sleep fully clothed. Gawain didn’t seem to feel the cold at all, and had, to Lancelot’s vexation, no qualms about undressing to only braies.  _ Those are quite short _ , thought Lancelot, then, like a rider pulling the reins to redirect his horse from a dangerous path, quickly put a damper on that line of thought. 

It wasn’t a large bed. It wasn’t a particularly comfortable one either. In fact, though he knew that it was an inanimate object and therefore without the capacity for malice, Lancelot was definitely beginning to resent the damn thing. 

“It looks sort of smug. Does it look smug to you?”

“...It’s a bed.” Gawain said, confused. 

“Right, I mean, I know- oh, nevermind.”

“Well, you can stand there speculating on the emotional state of a mattress, but I’m going to sleep,” he declared, and lay down as if to demonstrate the seriousness of his intention. After a moment of hesitation, Lancelot joined him, trying to leave space between them without falling off and largely failing.

Lancelot carefully studied the old wooden boards which made up the ceiling. He tried to recite the entire bible in his head and got as far as ‘the second day’ before giving up. He mentally listed objects which could be used to measure the space between them- a smallish leaf, a belt buckle, the blade of a knife, two or three fingers depending on the size of the hand they belonged to. 

This was remarkably unhelpful, as it led to unwilling contemplation of how small the distance between them was, that he could hear the slow breaths of his companion and feel the warmth of his body, that one slight movement would bring them together, together on a bed, a place for-

The horse was galloping full tilt towards a cliff.

Frantically, he listed the Latin conjugations of ‘to be’: sum, es, est, sumus, estis, sunt; tried to remember the complete rolls of every tournament, counted his breaths up to forty-three, then caved. He turned to his side, towards Gawain, feeling half-mad, and scorched despite the chill night air. 

_ That was a mistake, a horrible, stupid mistake _ , he thought immediately, because Gawain was laying there close enough to reach out and touch, bare-chested and only half covered by the thin blanket, back to him.

And every relationship he’d ever had was also a horrible, stupid mistake, that ended in death or being magically drugged or accidentally committing treason. 

_ Okay, not quite an accident- you didn’t trip and fall and have sex with the Queen,  _ he chided himself. Still, they’d finally broken it off and he’d left Camelot to quest alone and clear his head- and here he was stumbling into another potential disaster. 

But at the same time as he was thinking this, he couldn’t help but study the elegant lines of his friends’ body, his tan skin over defined muscles, dappled with scars, and couldn’t help but want to close the distance between them, which was both excruciatingly close and unimaginably distant, to kiss him there and there and down to-

The horse plunged off the cliff, onto some jagged rocks, and into the ocean and the open mouths of a swarm of sharks. 

“I’m going for a walk!” He announced loudly, bolting up and out of the bed.

“Wha- it’s the middle of the night?” Gawain mumbled blearily, already half asleep. 

“I, uh, can’t sleep,” Pulling on shoes and struggling to do the clasp on his cloak with hands shaking, Lancelot rushed out of the room.

“Don’t fuck a selkie!” Gawain called after him. He didn’t answer.

* * *

Lancelot had returned early in the morning, having wandered the beach in a fugue for hours, carefully avoiding all wildlife given the grave warnings, to find Gawain already up and packed, though the sun had not yet risen. 

“The boat doesn’t leave for three hours,” he announced in lieu of a greeting when Lancelot finally made his way back to the room. 

Over those three hours, Gawain unpacked and repacked his things four times, apparently unsatisfied with their organization, sharpened both their swords and polished their armour to a tournament worthy sheen, fussed about Lancelot’s apparently sub-par clothes till he gave in and decided to just wear his armour, which meant Gawain also had to wear full armour, before deciding, after the arduous process of getting it all on, that wearing full armour just to ride on a boat was ridiculous, at which point it all had to be taken off again, leaving them both exactly where they started but slightly more dishevelled. 

Eventually, after repacking for a fifth and final time, Gawain ran out of things to do, at which point they walked to the docks, where he resorted to pacing back and forth and muttering. All this Lancelot bore with a saintly level of patience he had not even believed himself capable of. Still, when they finally did board the boat it was with great relief.

It was a boat just large enough to take them and the horses, captained by an older man who recognized Gawain, called him a prince and tried unsuccessfully to refuse payment. For a few blissful minutes, Gawain was occupied happily in arguing with the captain about payment, but after his inevitable victory came about and money was exchanged, he once again returned to nervous misery. 

“It’s not too late to jump over the side and swim back to shore.” It sounded like a joke, but his face was deadly serious.

“It’s too late. Besides, I’d stop you.”

He scowled, “Traitor.”

In a desperate attempt to distract him, Lancelot pointed to the nearest island, off the port side of the ship. “What’s that island called?”

“Stroma.”

“And um, that one?”

“Swona. A lot of ships wreck there. Either it’s evil merrows misleading sailors or just, you know, rocks.”

“Maybe both?” he suggested absently, scanning the sea for more islands to point out.

“When I was about eleven, my brothers and I tried to find the merrows on Swona and kill them.”

“Did you?” Lancelot asked, hoping some happy reminiscence would prevent him from jumping overboard.

“We just found rocks,” he frowned at the memory, “It was a very stupid thing. Gaheris was nearly killed, falling from the bluff into the icy water, and our mother was so livid, she refused to help him at all.”

This certainly wasn’t as nostalgic and harmless as he’d hoped, but he was invested in the story now.“What happened?” 

“I lost my temper. I’ve never raised my voice at her, not before or since, but I so scared that he would die, and it was my fault, so she said I could take the punishment, instead. She took up a knife and told me she was going to cut out my tongue, for speaking out of turn.” 

“What?” he said, shocked.

“Well, obviously she didn’t. She told me she would give me one last day before she did it, and I was to meet her at her room in the high tower at dawn. In the middle of the night, I slipped out, stole a horse and some food and rode away,” he laughed, without much real mirth, “I only made it a few leagues before turning back. I met her in the high tower at dawn, teary and exhausted, and she said that because I had kept my word she would forgive me. Gaheris got better and I got to keep my tongue, which is good; I only have three real skills and two of them would be quite difficult without one.”

This attempt at a joke should have been heartening, but Lancelot did not laugh, “that story is horrifying!”

“I thought it was sort of funny,” Gawain said, unsure, “is that…. Is that sort of thing not normal?”

“No! Absolutely not!”

“Oh.”

With this revelation, they both fell into dismayed silence for the rest of the trip. Lancelot tried not to think about what he’d gotten himself into, and Gawain tried not to think at all.

They made it to the bay of Houton, on the main island, around nones- though it was hard to tell with the constant cloud cover and shortened days. It was still over an hour of riding to the family keep on the Loch of Harray, and it would be dark by the time they arrived.

About a half-hour of riding up the coast, they came upon a field, in which were erected a number of massive stones, the likes of which were found all over the British isles. 

Gawain slowed almost to a halt as they passed, head lowered in a gesture of obeisance. There was an unsettling quiet and sense of stillness in the air as they approached which did not fade till after they were out of view, and sped back up into a canter. Curious, Lancelot asked him about the stones.

“It is said they’re of divine origin, and the site is a place where the world thins. If you swear an oath on them, you’ll be held to it, by the powers that protect them.”

“Paganism?” he tried to sound disapproving, but could quite manage it. Despite his claims that he was a good christain boy, he had been raised by fairies. Christian fairies, though, he insisted.

Gawain shrugged, “better to be safe than sorry with such things. Especially considering…” he looked ahead, in the direction of his home, blanched, and did not finish the sentence.

They continued riding without any conversation. Sooner than either of them would have preferred, a massive and dark stone structure appeared ahead and began to loom large in the dusky twilight. They rode to about a few hundred paces off before dismounting to lead the horses up the dirt path, which was lined every few steps on both sides with waist-high stones, carved with symbols, animals and elaborate knotted designs.

The pair stopped just short of the huge, intricately engraved wooden doors, Gawain was frozen in place, staring up at the structure, which was black and slick with the constant misty rain.

“It’s not too late, we could turn back. Let’s turn back. I can’t- I can’t.” He turned and took several steps in the opposite direction, then stopped.

“It’s too late isn’t it.”

“It kind of is,” Lancelot agreed apologetically. He wanted to say it would be all right but feared it wouldn’t ring true. To see a man who’d willing rode off to his own death at the hands of a green giant reduced to near-hysterics was rather disquieting, to say the least.

“Fuck. fuck!” He ran his hands through his hair, paced up to the door and reached out as if to use the large metal knocker, then just as quickly dropped his hand and rocked back on his heels as if burned, “You do it, I can’t- Ah, I feel like I’m going to be sick,”

“Uh, try not to,”

“Well, obviously-”

A latch clicked loudly open, set in a wooden protuberance on the wall above which neither of them had noticed.

“Oy!” called the porter, a pair of baleful eyes glaring down at them from the little slot on the wall. 

The man immediately began arguing with Gawain in their language, and after several minutes of increasingly heated back and forth, he left his position and was replaced with a much older man, who after one look let out a wordless cry of horrified recognition. The doors creaked open, and as they entered the large courtyard and passed through the entry-way, they heard the older man berating the first from inside the gatehouse.

A stableboy rushed over to take their horses, Gawain parting from Gringolet with some reluctance, and they were ushered through to the inner ward and the main hall. Unlike Camelot, which was noisy and populous and a-bustle at all hours, the seat of the Orkneys seemed half abandoned, and what few people were around went about their business in grim silence.

The main hall was colossal, so grand in scale that it required two colonnades on either side to support the high, vaulted ceilings. It was lit with flickering braziers, which somehow burned so hot the flame was blue. Despite this, it was cold and drafty. Their steps echoed on the stone floor as they were led by an old serving-woman down to the unlit hearth at the back of the lonely hall and directed to wait.

Gawain was staring intently out one of the small, dim windows as if trying to ascertain whether it would be a viable exit.

“I-” he tried to think of something helpful to say, some reassurance or expression of friendly support, but though the sentiment was there, the words were not. He’d have to settle for thinking very loudly and hoping that it somehow magically came across. 

“Just- do this for me? Don’t talk any more than necessary,” Gawain asked, plaintive.

Before he could respond in the affirmative, the spectral braziers flickered, and a side door opened. Gawain became if it was possible, even tenser than before as the room grew chill and Anna Morgause, the witch-queen of the Orkneys, entered the hall. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i did a lot of research on medieval underwear for a throwaway line. thats life


	3. Part Three

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> events occur

It wasn’t anything in her features, that marked her inhuman parentage- she looked like a beautiful older woman, dressed elegantly and richly as befitted her station. But there was a sense of power about her that made her seem larger than anything else in the room, an emanating feeling of presence which he had only before known from Morgan Le Fay. 

Just as he was beginning to think that Gawain had been right and they should have taken the opportunity to flee- because Morgan had single-handedly terrorized the greatest kingdom in the world, and this was her  _ older sister-!  _ Queen Morgause ran to her son and embraced him, to the surprise of at least 2/3rd’s of the room’s occupants.

After a few moments, she stepped away, and Gawain looked at him with an expression of dazed shock that usually signalled heavy blood loss, as if to ask if this was reality or some sort of stress-induced hallucination. He shrugged, equally confused.

“My dearest son, finally returned to me!” she cried, as if she wasn’t the one who had told him never to come back, “please, tell me you are well! You look sick, you’re rather pale and sweaty,”

“Thanks,” he replied weakly, “I'm fine,”

She continued, evincive and cordial in her manner, as she led them to an already set table and called for food to be served, without breaking the constant stream of solicitous chatter directed at the still stunned Gawain.

How was the journey? Fine. Who is your lady? No one. Is the weather very different there? Not really. Have you won many tournaments? A few. Why don’t you have a lady? I’m between ladies at the moment. Is everyone a Christain there? No. Are you still the best knight, And are you sure you don’t have a lady? I had heard that you were married, is that true? She went back to fairyland. And no, I’m not. Why not?

This last question remained unanswered for a long while, as the poor ask-ee stared first at the floor, then his hands, and finally at the feast’s worth of food that no one was touching. 

He shrugged helplessly. “I don’t know, I’m just not, I’m sorry.”

“Well, I’m sure it is only a temporary lapse. Such a wonderful son as you are would never let our family be shamed like that for long.”

Perhaps noticing his stricken expression, Morgause clapped her hands and ordered the table to be cleared.

“You have been travelling, and you are tired, and thus your manners fail you. I understand, and I forgive you. We will speak more tomorrow when you are rested.”

Servants entered to clear the table and the Queen swept out of the room after directing the older woman from before the lead them to appropriate sleeping chambers.

The castle was imposing upon approach, and the hall of a frankly ridiculous scale, but it wasn’t till they were led away through the seat of the Orkneys that he realized how palatial it was. Every wall was covered in ornate tapestries, woven with gold and silver and jewels, the rooms were richly carpeted and appointed. Even to his admittedly undiscerning eye, the furniture was clearly of a superior quality, likely imported from far off places. But despite this luxury, it seemed bleak and empty, and though the walls were insulated with fine woven cloth and a fire roared in every hearth, it was cold.

Gawain parted from him with the same reluctance he'd had in the courtyard, and Lancelot wondered if he should find it heartening that Gawain seemed about as attached to him as he was to the horse.

After a sleepless night, several hours on a small boat, an afternoon of hard riding, and a meal with a less terrifying than expected but nonetheless intimidating sorceress, he finally had a bed- a whole room in fact- to himself. It was a massive featherbed too, curtained and high with thick, fine blankets, huge fluffy pillows, and silken, perfumed sheets.

So when a knock sounded on the door, he swore under his breath before he went, reluctantly to answer it.

“Hey,” Gawain said, walking in as if he owned the place, which he did. 

“I was just coming to see how you were doing, whether you were settled alright, or needed anything at all?” 

“Uh, no- this is the nicest room I’ve been in for a year at least.”

“Oh, right then, Good!” He made no move to leave.

“Was there… anything else?” Lancelot asked tentatively.

Gawain sighed and sat down on the edge of the bed, looking a bit sheepish. “It’s just very strange, you know, being back in my childhood bedroom. I waited around in there for about ten minutes and that was all I could take. I was hoping you would need something and I’d have an excuse not to go back, for a little while at least.”

“You can sleep here instead, I don’t mind.”  _ Why the fuck did I say that _ ? 

It was a surprisingly massive and opulent castle, there were multiple other empty guest rooms Gawain could use if a different room was in fact what he wanted. 

But he brightened at the suggestion, “You’re sure you wouldn’t mind?”

“Not at all.”  _ Yes! Very much! _

Gawain smiled, looking relieved, “thanks.”

“Uh, of course,” Lancelot indulged in mentally reciting every swear word he knew, which was really not very many. 

They prepared for bed in easy silence, practiced after the weeks on the road, and years on and off of travelling together. Lancelot thanked the unnatural chill of the castle, that Gawain elected to remain mostly clothed, then rebuked himself for being disappointed. 

At the very least, on an objective level, the sleeping situation had improved immensely. This bed was much larger and more comfortable, and the space between them was enough for a third and presumably extremely unlucky person to fit without touching the other two. And the fact he hadn't slept the previous night would, presumably, make doing so easier now, an assumption that was hinting at being correct when he was pulled from subconsciousness.

“Can I ask you something?” Gawain was laying on his back with his arms crossed over his face as if to block out the light of a blinding sun that only he could see, hands balled into tight fists.

“Anything.”

“Is it strange that I wish she had been angry?” He asked in a faint voice. “Then at least I would know what to expect. And I wouldn’t be so afraid of messing up, because at least I couldn’t make things any worse.”

Lancelot wanted desperately to say the right thing, then, some proper combination of words and actions, to stop him from being so miserable. There was no right thing to say.

“I’m sorry.”

Gawain lowered his arms and turned to look at him, surprised. “Why should you be sorry? It’s my dysfunctional family.” 

“I guess I’m sorry I can’t fix it for you. I would if I could.” 

He smiled fondly “This isn’t a problem you can hit with a sword, I’m afraid. Appreciate the thought, though.”

_ I wasn’t joking, I meant it _ , Lancelot wanted to protest, to tell him as many times as it took,  _ I’ll make things right for you somehow,  _ and kiss him until he believed it.

But he didn’t, because God knows, it would be the last thing either of them needed right now. He lay awake wishing Morgause was a dragon that could be slain or a tournament to be won, till his exhaustion finally caught up with him.

* * *

Lancelot awoke that morning already alone, a faint shimmer of weak sunlight struggling to trickle through the window. He rose but, unable to dress in anything but his travelling clothes, sat on the edge of the bed in chemise and braies unsure what to do. The answer came a few minutes later when a serving boy delivered a message that he was to come to Gawain’s room, which was down the hall and up a flight of stairs. 

As soon as he opened the door, he realized why this message hadn’t been given in person.

“Oh my God.”

“I know…” Gawain muttered from the floor, chagrined. It looked as if a great battle had been fought between a monster made of fine clothes and another monster, also made of fine clothes, and they had exploded all over the room upon their deaths. Open chests spewing silk were scattered haphazardly among piles of fur-lined finery, their owner shamefaced, regretful and half-naked sitting in the middle of it.

“I was so terrible. I hate 15-year-old me so much. Why did he do this.”

Lancelot poked at the nearest pile, trying not to burst out laughing. 

“What, uh, what about having-” he paused for a quick count, “-eight fur-lined surcoats embroidered with gold and silver and precious stones made you think, the thing that is missing in my life is a ninth one of those?”

“I was terrible!” he cried, head in his hands.

“This is a travesty, this is… it’s untenable,” 

“I had so much money and no friends,” Gawain said feebly, biting back laughter himself.

“The kid who owned two dozen capes, not having friends? Who would have thought,” He said, and they both lost it.

“The worst- the worst part,” Gawain gasped through peals of laughter, “is that these were measured for a teenager! They don’t even fucking fit me!”

It was several minutes before either was able to speak again. It was less that what had been said was particularly funny, more that the tragic ridiculousness of the whole trip had finally caught up with them, and if a fit of hysterics was going to happen, laughter was preferable to tears. It was better to think about some sad teenager with more money than God, that it was to remember that his terrifying sorceress mother was waiting for them.

“Fuck,” Gawain said finally, contemplating the mountains of clothing.

He pulled a few things from various piles, and held them up one at a time in consideration, throwing them aside, keeping them or tossing them to Lancelot till they both had a smile stack of clothing, and the room was possibly even worse than before.

“Most of these are small on me, so on you, they’ll be frankly indecent. But those you should at least fit into.”

“...thanks,” he said reluctantly. 

Luckily it wasn’t as bad as all that. The surcoat and hose were rather tight, but not terribly so, and the fabric was so fine and soft that it was still quite comfortable despite the tight fit.

“I spoke with the servants, and they don’t expect my mother to rise till the afternoon. We probably have a good five hours,” Gawain announced, entering the room after a cursory knock. 

“That’s good?”  _ was it? _ **_“_ ** Should we start searching for- uh, sorcery I guess?” 

“Later, there’s something more important we have to do first.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> morgause is here doing morgause things, and more geography.   
> theres nothing in canon about where in the orkneys theyre seat is, so i put it on the largest island on a bay so theyd have access to shipping and naval power from a central location


	4. Part Four

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> matters progress

“Gosh- ow!” Lancelot said, trying to move a branch out of his face only for it to snap back and hit him. 

“Not many trees under the lake?” Gawain smirked. 

They were in the private gardens, hiding from the cook in a fruit tree that should by all rights not be growing in so northern a climate. 

“You probably could have just asked for these,” He noted, accepting the bag of stolen baked goods and selecting some sort of tart.

“They taste better stolen, anyone can tell you that.”

Lancelot hummed noncommittally to that, and for a while they ate in silence, Lancelot trying desperately not to look like he was barely avoiding falling out of a tree. Gawain was trying not to laugh at Lancelot trying not to look like he was trying not to fall out of a tree.

“So,” Gawain said finally, “Sorcery.”

“Sorcery,” Lancelot repeated rather uselessly.

“Sorcery.”

They stared at each other for a second.

“Begining to not sound like a real word?”

“Begining to.”

Gawain checked the empty bag to see if any more tarts had appeared from thin air, and when the failed to materialize, frowned and leaned back against a leafy branch.

“I suppose the first order of business is reconnaissance. I know you favour charging in sword out, regardless of consequences or bystanders but-”

“I'm not that bad, am I?”

“You’re wonderful, but this situation is delicate. Let’s just give the whole property a once over, see if anything screams sorcery, then refocus. Up for a tour?”

Gawain looked at him expectantly, as if he hadn’t missed everything that came after the first two words.

“Um, thanks- or rather- yes, sure.”

He nodded and dropped down to the ground, without looking first. Never one for caution, Lancelot followed the same way, landing mostly gracefully in the soft grass that had no business being this far north in late autumn, or ever. Gawain pulled him to his feet but did not release his hand immediately, holding it loosely and running a finger over the plain silver ring.

“Uh-”

“Does this work in saltwater? In case things- well- deteriorate.”

“It- er- huh?” 

“It’s your mother’s ring, isn’t it? I’ve seen you use it before.”

Mental faculties slowly caught up to the conversation, “Oh! Right. Not in saltwater, but in a fountain, yes.”

“Are you alright? You seem distracted,” Gawain asked, letting go and taking a step back.

“No, I'm alright I'm- I’m wonderful.”

Gawain looked at him a little bemused, and he shrugged, and allowed himself to be led off out of the gardens, Gawain running over the architectural history hed given a few days before during his brief stress fueled attempt at education.

“The castle is built on an old hill fort, and the roots burrow deep into the ground, some carved stone tunnels, some formal passages and some natural caves that connect to the sea. The inner bailey and South wing was my grandfather’s addition, the North wing and attached towers and the outer bailey my fathers from before I was born,” he explained, as they passed through a back entrance into the great hall, lined with pillars, which Gawain said were 'Tuscan Doric,' though what that meant wasn’t explained.

An hour and a great deal of architectural terms later, Lancelot wasn’t any less likely to get lost but had learned more than hed ever thought possible about pillars. They had carefully avoided the South tower, Morgause's domain, and were now somewhere between the first and second bailey in one of the three lesser courtyards. 

“So, sorcery,” Gawain said, as Lancelot idly examined a baffling wood and rope mechanism attached to the base of the wall.

“Sorcery,” he repeated, now almost entirely sure he was being teased.

“Not seen hide or hair of it.”

“Of sorcery?”

“Exactly. Sorcery,” Gawain said, with a mostly successful attempt at maintaining a serious expression

“Sorceressness, sorceress activity, sorceretic behaviour, none of it, havent seen it,” Lancelot went on, because even if he found no black magic but made Gawain laugh, it would not be two hours wasted.

“From the Latin, sortiarius. Sorcery. Sor- sorcery,” he finished weakly, fighting a grin.

“Maybe we need to find the source. The, uh, source-ery.”

That did it.

“That isn’t even fucking funny,” Gawain complained, and burst out laughing.

It wasn’t funny, but it was a good minute or so before he got himself together again, despite that fact.

“Hey Du Loc, If being a knight doesn’t work out, you can cross jester off the list of backups,” Gawain leaned back against the wall and looked out over the courtyard, still smiling sort of sheepishly.

“Damn, now what will I do?”

“Aw, don’t worry, I’d hire you as a courtesan. It a very old and noble profession. The oldest actually.”

“I- you mean-” Lancelot panicked, “what does this do?”

Before gawain could stop him, or answer either of the questions, Lancelot reached over and pulled on the lever part of the mechanism, then stepped back, realizing this was probably a bad decision. Stepped back right onto the trap door, which at that moment swung open.

There was a crunch of bone breaking as he landed, but after a worrying moment of examination, he found it was not his bones that had broken.

“Oh, Jesus fuck, is that a ribcage?!”

“Probably,” Gawain’s voice came from above, along with a thin trickle of sunlight, sounding unperturbed.

“You just have skeletal parts in your house? What the fuck?”

“It's a castle, not a house. It’s fine, castles have bones in them sometimes.”

“Mine doesn’t,” he countered, and kicked off the ribcage. It flew off into the darkness and made a clattering noise against a pile of what sounded like more remains. “Oh, ew.”

“Look Du Loc, not all of us can live in ‘Joyous Guard’ or grow up in a magical fairy realm of eternal sunshine and flowers, some of us live in the real world! And in the real world, it rains sometimes, and there are bones,” he paused, then, in a rather more level tone, “also, I think you’ve fallen into the oubliette. Try not to move.” 

He tried not to move. After several seconds and some swearing, the trapdoor closed and he was in the dark, still trying not to move despite some very disconcerting skittering noises. Trying to remember that he cared about his friend very much and was doing this for him, Lancelot forced his breathing to be even as the moments alone in the dark crawled on, and the sensation of being observed by something out in the blackness, amongst the bones which rattled against each other under the feet of vermin or something else, grew in his mind. Just as he was thinking to draw the knife at his belt, brandish it at whatever he was sure was watching him, a crack of light appeared on the wall to his left.

It grew as the sound of stones moving against each other filled the chamber and light spilled in.

“Sorry, had some trouble with the mechanism, it's been a while since I was down here last,” Gawain apologized as he finished opening the little doorway.

“Be careful coming out, there's a good chance there's poison on those spikes. There was when I was a kid, anyway, that's why we weren’t supposed to play down here.”

“You played in the- the pit full of poisoned spikes and corpses?” Lancelot sputtered, making his way painfully slowly towards the light and through the wooden stakes which lined the floor. When he was close enough, Gawain, grabbed his arm and pulled him into the stone passage, working some sort of rope and lever mechanism to close it behind them. They were left in the flickering light of the torch, pressed together in a space barely big enough for one.

“Well,” Gawain said, not moving to leave, “what did we learn?”

“That your castle is gross and unsafe to be in.”

“Don't be a baby. No, think about the way you got in. It rusted over every few months, the oubliette was only open because my brothers and I insisted on exploring the tunnels. Gareth has been gone for two years, but it opened easily. My mother would never go down here, and the servants aren't allowed to. Ergo?”

“Someone has been using these tunnels,” Lancelot concluded, and shivered at the realization, or the fact that the opening of the passage was so tight their chests touched, and Gawain has still not let go of his arm. 

“We should go.” 

Gawain nodded, but looked at him, as if waiting for Lancelot to be the first to break away, though he wasn't the one that knew the way out. 

“You're alright?”

Lancelot nodded, “you asked that already, I'm fine, the fall wasn't that far.”

“I know I'd just- I'd feel pretty awful if you hurt yourself in my gross, unsafe castle,” Gawain said, half teasing and half serious. He stepped back, finally, still looking unsatisfied.

“It's not all bad,” he backpedalled, as Gawain led them up the tunnel and to a tight stairwell, “The gardens were nice.”

And it was the gardens, coincidentally, that they emerged into, the sun, though it was just mid-afternoon, already low in the sky and casting the out of season blooms in soft orange and pink.

Gawain swore under his breath.

“It’s later than I thought. I have to meet with my mother I- it may take a few hours,” he said, nervous misery all flooding back, “I’ll lead you back to your rooms, you can call a servant for food if you want.”

“I’ll wait up for you,” Lancelot promised, though it seemed a pretty paltry consolation.

But he smiled, “if you wish.”

Gawain led him quickly to the door of the chambers he insisted were just Lancelot’s despite the fact all Gawain’s things were there, and he’d slept in the bed the previous night.

“Good luck,” Lancelot said at the door, which roughly meant ’ _ I would kill your mother for you in an instant just say the word _ ,’ which meant ’ _ I love you _ ,’ which meant ’ _ good luck _ .’

With a brush of fingers on his sleeve- a steadying touch- Gawain leaned forward and pressed a quick kiss to his cheek, “Thanks.”

Lancelot stood in the doorway long after the soft pad of Gawain’s steps on the floor faded into silence, before he remembered where and who he was. He retreated into their rooms to think about things.

  
  


  
  
  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> shorter chapter this time, bc ive finally caught up to the huge gap i left in the story and have to write new stuff before i get to the end and its back to just filling in missing scenes. but god. knights gay. good for them


	5. Part Five

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> little is accomplished

The sun had been well down for hours, food sent for and eaten and sent away, when there was a perfunctory knock on the door, soft but precise, as Gawain returned. 

Lancelot was waiting up as promised, sitting on one of the couches half asleep after spending the interminably long in-between times alternatively napping, pacing, drawing his sword and replacing it in his sheath uselessly, and napping. He sat up a little straighter as Gawain dropped down on the embroidered cushions beside him, and froze as Gawain rested his head on his shoulder and put an arm around him, wordlessly.

“Are- are you alright?”

“Mm, yeah, I‘m alright,” Gawain mumbled, lips almost pressed against his neck.

“Did it- How did it go?” Lancelot managed to ask, an impressive feat of stringing words together considering the fact that Gawain was, for all intents and purposes, sitting in his lap.

“Well, I wasn’t turned into a bird or rat or anything, so better than expected. The brand new Galloway I presented her helped, so, thanks for that.”

“No problem, I- I could get you Argyll or Fife if-”

He felt more than heard Gawain laugh.

“I think I'm alright for now. Its created a great deal of trouble for me honestly- administerial matters. That’s the excuse for being here, anyway. So, I think you’ll have to take the lead when it comes to the other matter, if you don’t mind too much.”

“I don’t mind,” he said, internally cursing himself. This was exactly the sort of thing he was not suited for. He’d be more likely to succeed in a one-man campaign to conquer all of Scotland piece by piece than to conduct an investigation, of any type, especially not one so delicate. Yet, selfishly, he could quite bring himself to wish someone else more helpful was here in his place.

Abruptly, Gawain straightened, though did not rise, so he was looking Lancelot in the eyes, arms still wrapped around him.

“You, sir, are a pushover,” he accused, voice soft with tiredness.

“I- I don’t think that’s fair,” Lancelot lied.

“No, you are. You would have let me fall asleep on you right here on the couch and you would have sat still in discomfort till morning, tell me I'm wrong.”

“I don’t mind,” he said, realizing he was repeating himself, “I mean, it’s no trouble, you’re tired-”

“And there’s a huge bed in the next room. So order me off to it, come on, I'm being very irritating, do something about it,” Gawain insisted, looking halfway between amused and annoyed.

Lancelot gave up.

“Go to bed?”

Gawain smiled like clouds parting to reveal the sun, “See, that wasn’t difficult, you’ve stood up to a vicious tyrant,” giving him a cursory kiss on the cheek, Gawain rose and left for the next room.

_ So that is how you avoided getting your head cut off,  _ Lancelot thought, raising a hand hesitantly to touch his own cheek.

* * *

The next morning dawned unusually clear, and it looked as if it may even reach something resembling warm. Lancelot knew this because every window was uncovered and open as much as they could be from the instant light started to touch the horizon, which made sleeping sort of difficult.

Shaking off sleep, he sat up in bed and looked over to the centre of the room, where Gawain was sprawled happily on the carpet in the intersection of two beams of light from two sets of windows, looking through some papers.

“The sun is out!” He announced without looking up, which was sort of like good morning if you looked at it sideways.

“I see that.”

“Lots to do, so get dressed. I’ll be finished with this by the time you’re done.”

He did so, and, as promised, he returned to Gawain sitting in the windowsill eating an apple, having stowed the papers somewhere.

“You look nice in red,” he noted approvingly, “or maybe I'm just used to you covered in blood.”

Unsure how to respond to that, Lancelot joined him by the window and accepted a proffered second apple. 

“I have hours of administrative work to get through, but I hope to be done by noon. I’ll have to dine with my mother this evening, and I doubt ill escape the table before midnight. So that leaves you alone most of the day, I'm afraid,” he said, apologetically. 

“I can manage.”

“You always do, but I’d rather you not go in the tunnels alone, so we’ll save that for the afternoon. You might talk to the servants and retainers- They won’t be as honest with me as they would with a stranger who isn’t paying them,” he softened a bit from this practical laying out of affairs, “I know you don’t exactly enjoy speaking with people, I'm sorry to ask it of you.”

He really did try not to say it.

“I don’t mind.”

“Du Loc, if you say that one more time, and I tell you this out of love, I will kick you off my island and you can swim back to Camelot,” He ran a hand through his hair, which was glowing with reddish undertones in the warm light coming through the casement, “You’re too kind Bon Chevalier, I feel like a bastard to take advantage of it.”

“I'm not- Bon Chevalier, that’s too much.”

Gawain rolled his eyes, seriousness seemingly forgotten, “very well, Mal Fet, but for your records, no stars under which I’ve met you have yet been ill.”

“Oh- likewise, I- I can talk to a few people if it will help,” Lancelot said, and he had to agree that he did not, at the moment, feel like a man ill-starred or ill-made.

The feeling lasted approximately, or rather exactly, till the moment Gawain settled down at a desk with piles of papers and sent him off with a list of the oldest and presumably most helpful of the servants and retainers. The arms master, the cook, the head laundress, and anyone else but the steward, quote ’if he was feeling particularly ambitious’ which he very rapidly realized he would not be.

The arms master was of the old school, a grizzled and grey Pictish man who was a mess of muscle and scar and bad temper. The sort that took a personal objection to young knights, especially handsome young knights, especially handsome, French young knights. 

He scowled as Lancelot approached, and scowled darker as he stumbled through an awkward and likely unproductive series of questions.

“And- if you have seen anything unusual- or rather, have you seen anything unusual-?”

“Look, I don’t know what the fuck you want, but-” his frown suddenly changed to something like suspicion, and Lancelot took a nervous and mostly instinctive half step back, “wait, you came here day afore yesterday with the lad. Must be some sort of friend of his.”

“Uh, some sort, yes,” Lancelot confirmed, hoping this wasn’t information he was supposed to keep secret.

Contrary to his fears, the old warriors face split open in a wide grin, and the man patted him on the shoulder with a blow that would bowl over most people.

“Lead with that next time you Southern bastard. How is the little lad?”

The little lad was twenty-six years old and owned a significant chunk of Europe, but he supposed in fairness that Gawain had been much younger the last time the arms master had seen him. 

“Well enough, he’s gained worship and-” 

The arms master waved him off, “ach, nae, how’s his fighting- he still ’ave a slight delay attacking on the left? He’s slower on that side, cracked his ’ed open on the rocks as a wain.”

Lancelot had noticed that when his friend was particularly tired, he was slower blocking attacks to his left. But the man had no intention of giving him a chance to answer.

“And he disnae practice enough, the lazy shite. Bet you ’aven’t seen ’im with a bow the whole decade together.”

Gawain was not fond of archery, it was true. He didn’t see the fun of fighting if one wasn’t in the middle of it.

“He is a very skilled knight, and always accounts well for himself,” Lancelot said in defence of his friend’s honour, and the man nodded.

“Oh, aye, I bet he does. For a pretty little creature, he fights like a beast from hell. Good lad. Whats he wanting, then?”

“ah, well-” what were they here for again? “He’s trying to look into affairs here, he’s been gone a long time, and there is a dangerous person loose that may come here,” Lancelot explained, pretty proud of how he’d handled that.

The man didn’t seem to agree, staring flatly at Lancelot, unconvinced.

“He’s ’ere about the sorceress, then. Gods be with the both of you.”

“There is a sorceress here then?”

The old man looked at Lancelot like he was an idiot, which he was starting to suspect he might be. He pointed wordlessly to the south tower, rising unsteadily over the rest of the castle like the beady face of a long decked water bird. 

“Ah.”

The cook and laundress were both equally as happy to fondly berate Gawain, and reticent to discuss whatever seemed so powerfully wrong in the Orkneys. He left them without much helpful knowledge, but with a basket of baked goods and more information than hed ever wanted to know about how popular a teenaged Gawain had been with laundresses.

So he returned to their rooms with nothing but vague premonitions and a mental list. The list was titled, “the Orkney islands are terrifying and confusing,” and what followed was a litany of odd and suspicious things that no one but himself seemed to remark upon. Trees and flowers bloomed with fruit out of season, when they were too far North for them to be rightly growing at all. The torches seemed to light themselves, and fires roared in every fireplace, even those unattended, without warming the rooms. There was a pit full of poison spikes and dead bodies.

Just odd little things.

He shared these with a currently ill-tempered Gawain over a quick meal, and received nothing but a shrug. His friend wasn’t meant for desk work, even if he had all the education to do it well.

“I have hours before dinner, we can explore the tunnels later,” Gawain pronounced, pacing the room like a caged lion, “before the sun sets, lets spar, stay in practice. How about it?”

Lancelot was quick to abandon their investigation in favour of this new plan, and they headed to the training yard, where Gawain was derailed in being told off by the arms master from that morning, whose name, Lancelot had forgotten to ask but now learned, was Drest. 

So it was that after his form, technique, physical fitness and, most unfairly, height was redressed in fond criticism, Gawain was no longer of a mind to casually practice. Now he was in the mind to win, decisively if possible. Lancelot considered letting him win, but suspected Drest would see through it. At the very least Gawain would. 

He wasn’t exactly fighting honourably, either. Gawain targetted the grip of his opponents left hand, which he well knew had not healed the same after the being sliced to ribbons on Malegaunts bridge, almost disarming him twice and setting it back to a dull ache that would likely persist for days. He used his slight stature to advantage, too, making it hard for Lancelot to land a solid hit. 

But turnabout was fair play, and he wasn’t about to throw a fight. Unless Gawain had asked to, of course. But he hadn’t, so Lancelot began to concentrate his attacks on Gawain’s left, low, where his superior reach gave him the advantage, keeping the shorter man from getting in close enough to finish with one of the frankly too many knives he wore. 

In a risky gambit, Gawain abandoned his shield for a long knife, giving superior speed and manoeuvrability, but- fatally- less ability to block any blows that landed. Lancelot landed more hits, mostly keeping the flat of the blade, and avoiding the head once Gawain lost his helmet.

Without the help of the sun, which was beginning to creep under the horizon, Gawain was less in a straight contest of strength, and Lancelot forced him to the ground. Finally, he had Gawain pinned in the mud by his wrists on the left and a blade caught through the chain on his arm on the right. 

“Lancelot-”

This was a bad sign. ’Lancelot’ was significantly worse than ’Du Loc’, which wasn’t quite as good as ’Amie’ or ’Bon Chevalier’, but slightly better than ’Sir,’ which was only one step up from not using his name at all.

But Gawain merely trailed off, looking up at him with a hint of the confounded expression of post-battle. His face was red with exertion, hair sticking to his forehead with mud and sweat and the stinging blood of small cuts, and he must have been the loveliest thing God ever made.

“...Lancelot?” He breathed, almost a whisper.

“Um- yes?”

“Get off of me, please.”

“Oh!” his face burned, though it likely had been so before, and he rose quickly, dusting himself off and trying not to make eye contact, “sorry.”

Half-hearted clapping, mixed with a few patriotic boos, drifted into the practice ring from the small crowd of bored servants and passers-by that had unbeknownst to them gathered to watch the fight. 

Derst told them both it was well fought, and let Gawain have it for what few mistakes he had made, before sending him off with a pat on the back. They arrived back at their rooms muddy, bloody, bruised and tired, but Gawain looked happier than he had in days.

“Gods, my mother cannot see me like this. There’s a heated bath complex in the east wing- another Roman holdover, it’s actually modelled of Caracalla’s- well nevermind that, but do you want to-”

“Uh, no, that’s-”

“You don’t want to bathe with me? Here I thought we were friends,” He said, throwing bits of armour and chain to the floor carelessly.

“It’s exactly because I want to remain friends that I can’t do that,” Lancelot thought but didn’t say aloud. Gawain shrugged it off good-naturedly.

“It’s alright, I know you. I'm lucky you let me see you with your helmet off." 

Gawain called a maid for hot water and clean linens and left for the East wing alone, Lancelot left feeling sore and mostly unaccomplished. He had to do something. Something helpful. Something that was his idea. Something dangerous and ill-thought-out. That was how one showed affection, after all, wasn’t it?

The idea came with a mix of satisfaction and dread, and the first one unlikely triumphed. Because if Morgause was off terrorizing her son in the main hall, she by definition was not in the South tower.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i decided to keep morgause off screen as much as possible, to preserve the tension when shes present, whihc is, i realize, the same philosophy held toward the shark in jaws.


	6. Part Six

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> things get confusing

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ahhhhh hi its been like 2 months lmao but i fell off the bridge and im bored so have this chapter. the plot.... its happening.... finally..... sort of

The realization that it had been a bad idea came remarkably early in the process and was, regrettably, unheeded. He had begun the endeavour with a deceptive ease that perhaps should have been more alarming than it was.

The door to her private chambers would be locked, of course, but there was an unbarred window accessible through the courtyard with a bit of creativity and scrambling, which was forced open without much trouble. It was dark, and the castle was understaffed already, so he was fairly sure that no workers had seen him. Besides, when it came down to it, they seemed more loyal to the prince than his mother.

The torches, which always seemed to be lit after dark without anyone going around to light them, were sparse in that area of the courtyard, and, he found upon prying open the casement, sparser still inside the South Tower. Underfoot, the stone floor was practically icy, the walls not covered in the rich tapestries that insulated the rooms and halls of the rest of the palatial, and at this point implausible, structure. 

Lancelot moved through the moonlit room to a set of tight wooden spiral stairs, quietly. He could be very quiet sometimes when he needed to be, and now it felt dearly needed. 

The sense of subtle wrongness was stronger here, more than noticing odd things that no one seemed to care about, now it was an emanating sense of misshapenness from beneath the floor, thrumming up through the tower in pulses that, if he stood still and concentrated, he could almost feel. 

Filing this information away for later-- though at times it felt, in his mind, more like writing information down and tossing it into the ocean-- he reached the top of the stairs and assessed his options. There was a narrow window, always a handy egress in his opinion, and a door on the other side of a small sitting room like area. He listened at it for a long moment, ignoring the pulsing, and hear nothing. Tentatively, he tried it and found it unlocked.

This room held no more dark secrets than the first had, appearing to be yet another comfortable living space. It was dark, only the moonlight from the few slim windows slipping in. Lancelot was careful to disturb nothing while he searched the room, for what he wasn’t sure, but whatever it was he didn’t find it. There were two more doors, one of which seemed to be for storing cloth and linens. The other led to another stairway, which he climbed, though the way it turned and twisted so tightly was dizzying, and it was completely unlit, dark and claustrophobic and stuffy.

He arrived gratefully at the top of the stairs, feeling breathless and confined, didn’t even wait to listen behind this door, merely yanked it open. This room was well lit, with an open balcony across it through a rounded archway. He found no relief from the feeling of pressure, as it had only grown greater here. There was no evident reason for it, as it seemed to be a pleasant sort of sitting room, into which light, during the day would stream to illuminate reading, sewing etc with couches and benches and small tables. 

But now the feeling of wrongness was so powerful it was painful, and he felt he could scarcely move. He stumbled breathlessly onto the balcony, which was some small degree of improvement, enough to collect himself and take stock. Unsteadily, he leaned back on the elaborately carved stone railing and ran his hands through his hair.

A sudden jolt of pain shot through his hand, and he swore, ripping his hands from his hair to stare at them. The pain faded as quickly as it came, with no obvious source, except that the ever-present thrumming seemed to have focused on one point-- the band around which his mother's ring rested. Curiously, he brushed a finger over the smooth silver, and was rewarded with another shock.  _ Something is wrong, _ it screamed,  _ something is very, very wrong. _

Curiosity won out over sense, and after only a moment of consideration, Lancelot tugged off the ring, as quickly as he could, and finding it burning, as if resisting removal, dropped it on the stone floor. 

It did not make a sound as it landed, because the stone floor against which it might clink had vanished. In its place was… nothing.

The tower was gone, and all was black. All was not quiet, however. The sound of a storm howled around him, accompanied by the crashing of waves. 

And the thrumming noise was clearer, identifiable; many faint heartbeats, forming one awful choir. 

For a while, or a moment, he was frozen in choking panic, but he forced a breath, then two, tried to block out the sounds and think-- it was nearly impossible, but-- the ring. 

Dropping to his knees, he felt around blind for where the floor might be, trying to hit upon it, hoping it was even there. He was about to give up, felt the pull of the chorus begging for his addition, when the tip of a finger ghosted over something cold and painful. Ignoring, welcoming the sensation of burning, he gripped the ring in a fist. It hummed a response, discordant against the heartbeats, but wherever he was, whatever magic trapped him, was stronger than the enchantment. Desperately, he tried to call for Vivian, hoping the waves crashing over him meant, somehow, that they were in water.

After a few desperate seconds, he felt a change in the space, say a faint bluish light above him and, urged on by the buzz of the ring, rose to meet it. 

Breaking the surface of still water, he emerged from the black ocean and into a calmer lake, the moon shining overhead. The water receded till he was standing on the shore, and the pain from the ring settled into a low, friendly buzz, as Lancelot became aware of a familiar presence. 

“You have been going to very interesting places, my prince,” Vivian said from beside him. The casual words were belied by her gentle, worried expression.

“er-- yes. Thank you. Sorry.”

“No, I am sorry,” she said regretfully. “whatever power you are trapped in, it is very strong, and very dark. It was everything I could do to get you out, and now that it knows my magic, I will not be able to do so again. Your ring will still offer what protection it can but I will not be able to speak with you again, should you choose to return--”

He interrupted her, “I have to return, I can't abandon-- this quest.”

She sighed, more exasperated than sad. “I hope that whoever this is for is worthy of your loyalty. You're too kind.”

“Is that a sin?”

“Only against yourself.” she gave him no time to consider that statement, but parted the water with a wave, the fabric of that place parting with it. “You can return safely now, if you are sure. Be careful, My Prince,” she added. He thanked his mother, and stepped forward, back onto the tower balcony. 

But it seemed he would not have even a moment of success, for no sooner had he got his bearings than there came the sound of footsteps on the stone stairs. 

It was then that he realized he was soaking wet. He had brought half the lake with him, it seemed, and the balcony and attached room were flooded with a half inch of water.

The doorknob began to turn and instinct took over, which is, many people don't realize, a  _ bad  _ thing, because instinct is meant for finding berries and running away from large animals, and patently not for evading sorceresses.

Evidently categorizing Queen Morgause as a large animal, instinct called for evasive action. This was how Lancelot found himself hanging from the-- well it was some sort of external architectural element, Gawain would know.

Lancelot wasn't really very clear on the exact details of his Christian faith, but knew then that whatever sins were, he must be doing an awful lot of them, if his life was anything to go by. 

He heard the door open, quiet footsteps, and then absolute silence. It was a lot like hanging from a barred window, really, except at least this time his hands were mostly not in multiple pieces. It could be worse, he tried to think, but found it wasn't quite working. 

After an abominably long silence, the choice became let go or try to climb down. He tried to do the second and at some point ended up with the first, but managed against all odds to drop down into a bush in the courtyard and escape with only bruising and abrasions. Judging all his bones to be unbroken, merely embarrassed, he crept back their rooms. 

His good luck being neverending, Gawain had beaten him back, and he opened the door to a very curious stare from across the room. 

“Get off the rug, please, the water will ruin it,” Gawain said evenly. 

“Oh-- yes--” Lancelot stepped back onto the stone of the entranceway and stood there awkwardly for a moment. “I-- I can explain--”

But Gawain shook his head. “Priorities. I'll get you a change of clothes. Is that your blood?”

Lancelot blinked. “Thank you? Er, yes, I think so. Yes.”

Gawain laughed, softly, fondly, and slipped from the room, returning moments later with dry clothes, and handing them over. There was a long second of silence.

“So you're just. Gonna stand there?” Lancelot asked awkwardly.

Nonplussed, Gawain tilted his head. “Huh? Do you want me to leave?”

“Uh,” Yes? Kind of. Maybe. But he had fucked up and Gawain was already being nicer than he deserved.

“I’ll leave, it's okay, I'm sorry,” Gawain said quickly, stepping back. “Just tell me when you're done and I'll patch you up.”

“I'm sorry,” Lancelot said. 

Gawain paused, already in the doorway, and turned. “Don't be sorry. Really. I don’t want you to be uncomfortable. You can tell me to fuck off anytime, I swear I won’t be mad.”

Lancelot rarely had a good command of words, and was too thrown to say anything but: “I-- Thank you.” 

“Anytime,” Gawain was smiling easily. Lancelot searched his face for resentment and found none at all. Then he went into the other room, and whatever had just occurred was over. 

Lancelot changed quickly, draping his wet clothes awkwardly across a chair and then crossing the room, to pause in the doorway that Gawain had so recently occupied. He, now, was perched in his customary place at the window, reading his papers by candlelight. He looked warm. His hair looked soft. Lancelot stood there for a moment thinking about these things. 

Then, Gawain glanced up and smiled at him. “Hey. You have blood in your hair.”

“I fell off a tower,” Lancelot admitted. At Gawain's concerned look, he found himself explaining everything that had happened while the other was at dinner, while Gawain led him to a table and checked over every little cut, wiping the blood with a cloth and ensuring no serious harm was done. When all that he had to tell was told, Lancelot lapsed into silence. Gawain seemed deep in thought, holding Lancelot's hand in his and brushing a thumb over the ring almost idly.

Lancelot may have sat there like that quite happily for a long while, if he could have forgotten the events in the tower. But troubled discontent stalked his mind like a great cat that refused to settle. He had never been trained in logic, but he muddled through, though his mind felt airy and distant, a sort of dull breathlessness at being both near and far. 

“May I try something?” he asked finally.

Unexpectedly, Gawain looked surprised. “You-- yes. Yes.”

Lancelot blew out a breath, and hoped he wasn't making the same mistake a second time. Hesitantly, he slipped the ring from his finger, and found no immediate changes. There was a watched feeling, a sense of being untethered. He noted this and took Gawain's hand, slipping the ring on. Gawain merely looked puzzled.

“Do you-- do you feel anything different?”

Gawain wiggled his fingers experimentally. “Not entirely sure what I'm looking for.”

“I don't know, I-- just feeling like something is wrong?” Lancelot was floundering, and feeling rather foolish. 

Gawain did not respond and he tried again.

“The--” he grasped onto whatever he could think. “The trees shouldn’t be bearing fruit. There's- dead bodies in the basement, no one lights the fires and they give off no heat, the tower is some sort of portal to hell. And no one else thinks that's odd?” Lancelot ended, sounding slightly strangled.

“Huh.” Gawain blinked, looking like he was just waking up. “That's… huh. That is-- not good. I knew all of that, why didn't it strike me as odd before?”

Lancelot, relieved, said nothing. Gawain drew his unringed hand through his hair. “Fuck. Fuck. I am so sorry I dragged you into this, I didn't know--”

“Gawain, I want to help,” Lancelot interrupted, “If-- if I can. I mean, dangerous quests and all, it is, what bold knights do.”

Gawain seemed to find this amusing. “Do you feel like a bold knight? I don't, at the moment.”

“I never have,” he admitted, with a chagrined laugh. 

“Oh, good. That's a relief,” Gawain said, smiling again and removing the ring from his finger, replacing it in its customary place. “I don't know what is happening here and I don't know what to do about it yet. But I think it’ll wait till the morning. I want to show you something.”

“Oh, yes?” Lancelot asked, rising when the other did. “What is it?”

“I don't think an explanation would suffice,” Gawain said, slipping on shoes and crossing to the other room, waiting at the entranceway. 

Satisfied with this, Lancelot joined him in the entranceway and was led out. Instead of turning towards the hall, they took another, almost hidden path up several tight stairwells. They emerged without warning onto battlements, the weathered stone marking it as part of the oldest section of the keep. Gawain, touched his arm and gestured proudly at the night sky.

“Oh.,” breathed Lancelot. It was clearer than he'd seen the sky in weeks, but that wasn't what was striking.

“They're called the Merry Dancers,” Gawain said. There was something charming about his proprietary satisfaction, as if he had set the green and purple lights to dancing all on his own. “They come in winter and autumn. You Christians think they are a terrible omen. The Romans thought it had something to do with the dawn, or the wind or something.”

“They're nice,” Lancelot said. It seemed overwhelmingly insufficient, but it was true.

Gawain, anyway, seemed pleased with it. “I agree.”

They stood in companionable silence, watching the sky, for a long while. 

“Thank you,” Gawain told him after a long time, when the wind was picking up and biting at his skin. 

“You're welcome,” he said, not sure what else to say.

“It's late and cold. Maybe things will make sense tomorrow.” 

They went inside.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> <3 talk 2 me in the comments im bored......

**Author's Note:**

> *It is generally understood that the highest-ranking officiant of a gladiatorial match, usually the emperor or a senator, would signal to kill the gladiator with a much-debated gesture called ‘pollice verso’ or turned thumb, which may have been a thumb up, down, or to the side, but signal to spare the fighter with a ‘pollice compresso’ gesture, a closed fist. I got derailed for like an hour to pointlessly research that so now I’m forcing you to learn about it.
> 
> **Dumbarton town, in Dumbartonshire in the lowlands of Scotland. It dates back to the Roman occupation.
> 
> ***This is a real name of a place! ‘The Sea of Orcs’ was the name given to the Pentland Firth, the strait which separates the Orkney Islands from mainland Scotland, by the Picts prior to Norse occupation. Fun fact: it isn’t technically a firth, despite the name. I learned a lot of geography researching this that I wish I hadn’t learned.


End file.
